


Things Beyond Your Ken

by toomuchplor



Series: How Not to Fly [5]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Coming of Age, Domestic, F/M, First Time, Humor, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Parenthood, Sex Education
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-06
Updated: 2010-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-12 11:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Can we lock her up forever?" asks John, dead serious.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"That's what I was thinking," agrees Rodney fervently.</i>
</p><p>Set about a year after the end of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/123697">It Isn't That Amazing</a>, the second coda to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/122131">How Not to Fly</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Beyond Your Ken

Nora starts growing like a weed the first year she lives with John and Rodney, and keeps right on going through middle school and her freshman year of high school. It's something to be thankful for, so far as John is concerned, because a growing teenage girl is a gangly coltish teenage girl with knobby knees and elbows and no real dimensions in the horizontal sense; in other words, nothing really to attract the attention of teenage boys, who are drawn to somewhat baser female traits. Nora grows and grows and grows, up and up and up, before she finally slows down at about five feet ten inches, just shy of Rodney's height, around the time of her sweet sixteen.

Gangly and tall though she is, no one would ever call Nora shy or retiring. Under Rodney's influence, she's come to have great confidence in her intelligence, and probably due to both Rodney and John, she's developed a dry mature sense of humor that suits her well. If her preference in clothes runs to the slightly shapeless and bland, well, that's just fine by John. She certainly doesn't seem to spend much time thinking about her appearance; less time, probably, than PJ, who at age eleven has developed a serious obsession with trying to style his unfortunate John Sheppardesque hair. She likes the quirky, the truly indie, the weird; she isn't a girl who takes very long to get ready. John appreciates this, even in their new house with a bathroom for each of the kids.

It's all fine, in other words, until the day Rodney comes home from dropping Nora off somewhere, slams the front door, and storms into the living room where John is busy marking test papers.

"God, what's up with you?" John asks, taking in Rodney's flushed face and crossed arms.

"You," says Rodney, pointing at him. "I'm not talking to you, it's your damned genetics that caused this, this _situation_."

"What the hell are you talking about?" John asks, wide-eyed. "Jesus, is Nora out flying a jumper or something?"

"Of course not," snaps Rodney, "we're in the middle of California, hundreds of miles from any Ancient tech. I'm talking about _this_." And he reaches out a hand and waves it in a crazy circle around John's face.

"You know, for someone who's not talking to me," begins John lazily.

"Oh, shut up," says Rodney, and flounces down into his usual armchair, which is green and squashy with lumbar support, and completely clashes with everything else in the room. "The thing is, when you go out someplace with Nora, everyone looks at the two of you and says, 'Oh, look at that gorgeous young woman and her handsome salt-and-pepper father,'" – and John raises a hand to his hair, about to protest, but Rodney bulldozes on – "but when _I_ go out with her, do you know what they say? They say, 'Look at that gorgeous young woman and that doughy middle-aged creepy cradle-robber who's clearly with her for all the wrong reasons!'"

John decides to let the erroneous salt-and-pepper comment go in favor of further sarcasm. "Wow, they say all that?" he asks.

"Shut up," Rodney says again. "They _look_ it. They tut and shake their heads and the whole time Nora's there, being gorgeous, and I'm trying not to look like a fucking weirdo, which, by the way, is the fastest way to assure everyone that you _are_ a fucking weirdo! I'm not going out in public with her again until she is horribly disfigured or converts to orthodox Islam and starts wearing a full burka."

"Whoa," says John, holding up his hands. "It's Nora. I mean, you and me, we know she's a gorgeous kid, but I don't think she's quite the head-turner you think she is. Rodney, her favorite thing to wear is that ratty old t-shirt of yours, 'I'm with genius' or whatever."

Rodney rolls his eyes. "When was the last time you looked at Nora?"

"I look at her every single day, Rodney," says John patiently, "mostly when she's asking for my money."

"I mean _looked_ at her," says Rodney. "Hello? I know you have uncle-vision, so do I, but take a look at her – she's changed in the last year or so. She's a hottie, John."

"Rodney, gross," says John.

"Well, not from _my_ perspective," Rodney complains, "I mean, objectively. You know how we've been so relieved that Nora is, well, kind of not the kind of girl who necessarily appeals to most horny teenage boys?"

"Yeah," says John, unable to keep from smiling at the truth of it.

"Well," says Rodney, "apparently she's the kind of girl who jumped right _over_ that stage, straight into the being-attractive-to-grown-men phase."

"She's sixteen!" John exclaims, offended.

"Yes, and we all know that no grown man would ogle a sixteen-year-old girl," Rodney says sarcastically. "Besides, she doesn't look it. Not anymore."

John huffs a sigh of disbelief and picks up his red pen. "You're being ridiculous," he says.

"When she comes home," says Rodney, pointing his finger again, "you just take a second and put on your dirty old man goggles. Promise me."

John doesn't look up, but he draws a cross over his heart with a small motion, bored.

* * *

Nora gets home a few minutes shy of her ten o'clock weeknight curfew. She breezes into the living room with a glass of milk and a box of Ritz crackers and drops down onto the sofa that sits at right angles from the one John is occupying.

"Hi uncles," she says, digging a handful of crackers out of the box. "What's new and exciting in uncle-land?"

"Well," says John, tapping one of the exam papers, "apparently the laws of physics have changed."

"John doesn't believe me that you're drawing unwelcome attention from creepy older men," says Rodney, nose buried in his e-reader.

"Ugh, Rodney," says Nora. "Gross."

"That's what I said," John agrees, but Rodney's reminded him of his promise, so while Nora flips through channels until she hits National Geographic, he cuts a few glances over at her, trying to think with his long-atrophied straight brain, putting aside all the usual protective instincts when it comes to Nora.

She is tall, of course, with whopping great size eleven feet to match (currently bare). Nora's never been one much for haircuts, and her long sleek dark hair is, as usual, swept up into a messy ponytail. She's wearing the skinny jeans that were cool when John was a teenager, and on top a couple of layered tank top things with messy spaghetti straps that show off the narrow black polka dotted straps of her bra. John isn't crazy about that, but all the girls seem to think it's fine to show off bra straps nowadays, and he's long since given up complaining whenever Nora does it. Her ears are pointy and weird like John's, and she has his high cheekbones and thick dark lashes, as well as his mouth.

She looks normal, just like Nora. John smiles and shakes his head; McKay is crazy.

"Oh, god, I'm exhausted, I'm off to bed," says Nora a while later, getting to her feet and stretching, then smoothing her hands down to pull her tank tops back into place – and bam. John sees it, sees what Rodney was talking about. Nora's erstwhile skinny shapeless frame has suddenly erupted into actual curves. Not disturbing Teyla curves, no, but long lean model kind of curves. Project Runway curves.

And yes, John can acknowledge that he's obviously incapable of thinking with his straight brain if Project Runway pops in uninvited like that.

Nora leaves the room, and John notices with agony that the skinny jeans cling to her butt just right, that she's somehow, without his noticing, developed this very alluring feminine way of walking.

"Ha," says Rodney, who of course hasn't missed a moment of John's awful revelation. "You see?"

"Can we lock her up forever?" asks John, dead serious.

"That's what I was thinking," agrees Rodney fervently.

* * *

They begin a joint campaign of trying to cover Nora up, but they've picked a bad time as late spring gives way to summer with a wicked early heat wave. "No," says John, when Nora turns up to breakfast wearing shorts. "No way."

"John," says Nora (she dropped the 'uncle' a while back, unless used in the service of irony.) "Seriously? It's 90 degrees today."

"What's wrong with palazzo pants?" says Rodney, lifting his coffee mug. "Or a nice floor-length skirt?"

"You're both complete freaks," says Nora. "How have I not noticed this?"

The next day it's a tank top again, but it doesn't quite reach the waistband of her jeans. Her navel is showing.

"Umbilicus," John calls, pointing. "Nope!"

Nora sighs, but this time she does go and change, into a longer tank that covers her middle. "Next you're going to tell me I have to join the Christian youth group at school," she says, "and talk about saving my virginity as a special gift for my husband on my wedding night."

"There is nothing wrong with waiting for marriage," says Rodney firmly. "We would actually prefer if you waited until a few years after marriage, in fact."

"Jesus," says Nora.

"That's the spirit!" John says encouragingly.

A few days after that, Rodney tries to convince Nora she's been squinting at the television. "You probably need glasses," he says mournfully. "Giant, square, ugly, black-framed glasses."

"Hello," says Nora, "my uncle was a fighter pilot. Perfect vision here."

"What about your teeth?" Rodney tries. "I think you need braces, or a headgear."

Nora bares her white straight teeth, the gesture obviously more than a demonstration of her lack of need for orthodontia.

"Maybe one of those full-body braces," says John, chiming in. "Does her back look scoliotic to you, Rodney?"

"Absolutely," says Rodney. "She looks like the hunchback of Notre Dame, now that you mention it."

"You know, you're both lucky that I'm not emotionally fragile," says Nora. "Half the girls at my school are bulimic and none of their dads ever told them they looked like a hunchback."

"Please," says Rodney, "we tortured the emotional fragility out of you years ago. Now go and eat some greasy foods, maybe we can work up some good acne."

"I have rose petal skin," says Nora, getting into it now. "I'm like freaking Snow White." She goes to leave the room, making dramatic regal poses all the way.

"Stay away from dwarves!" John yells. Once she's gone, he looks over at Rodney. "Okay, our brilliant plan may be starting to backfire. I think we're actually making her more aware of her good looks."

"Dammit," says Rodney. "I thought I was onto something with the greasy foods."

* * *

So they have to give up and let Nora go around being unselfconscious and gorgeous and confident and witty. It's fine, John thinks, she's a good kid, she's more worried about grades and the latest indie band than boys and sex. And even if there should be a boy, and sex, John is pretty sure that Nora's way too smart to do anything truly dangerous and stupid. But he can't think about that for too long, because he gets back into the 'locking her up forever' mindset.

It's summer, and Nora gets a job as a lifeguard at the local pool, which is pretty much a nightmare for John and Rodney both; but it's good money, it's good for her to have a job (and stop mooching off John) and learn responsibility, and anyway, Nora's not a bikini girl, she's a tank suit kind of girl at worst. Still, she comes home every day with messy wet hair up in a bun and a deepening tan and she's beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, and it would make John burst with pride except for how it's making him crazy with worry.

"I am telling you this because I want you to have lots of time to get your insanity out," says Nora at dinner one night.

"Oh no," says Rodney, dropping his cob of corn with a noisy clatter. "You're pregnant. No, you're on crack. Oh my god, you're pregnant with a crack baby."

"Good," says Nora, "that's a good start." She lifts her burger, takes a bite, and chews slowly, killing John with suspense. "Okay," she says. "I am dating a boy."

"Oh my god," says Rodney. "I knew it! Crack baby!"

"I am not sleeping with him," Nora says. "Not. Sleeping with him."

"Damn right you're not," says John, pointing his finger at her. "I have special ops training. I'll kill him."

"His name is Drew," says Nora, "and he's going into his junior year, same as me. He's a total nerd. He's really into video games." She gestures at PJ. "You will like him."

"I'd better like him," says PJ, lighting into his third burger (he's eating them out of house and home this summer). "Especially if he's going to be taking my sister's flower."

"He's not taking my flower," says Nora. "Peej. Gross. Anyway, I want to bring him here to meet everyone next week. By then, everyone will be calm and sane and will not mention crack babies, special ops training, or flowers."

"Sounds boring," says PJ.

"Exactly," says Nora. "Okay, that's all I have to say. Let the insanity continue."

"Is he a musician?" asks Rodney, terrified. "Please say he's not a drummer."

"He plays no instruments," Nora says. "Actually, that's not true, he played clarinet in the concert band for a couple of years. But currently he is not in a band. He doesn't own a guitar. He has no tattoos or piercings, at least not that I've seen."

John cracks his knuckles and thinks about getting a gun.

* * *

Nora is desperately out of Drew's league. He's a good four inches shorter than her, skinny and pale, and he is obviously scared as hell to be meeting Nora's gay crazy uncles and her gay crazy brother.

"Uh, pleased to meet you, uh, sir," says Drew, and sticks out a sweaty palm for John to shake.

John stares at it, arms folded, until Nora says, " _John,_ " between clenched teeth and he has to comply.

"Colonel John Sheppard," he says. Drew's grip is loose and terrified.

"Ex-colonel," says Nora. "In the air force, which is totally the least scary force."

John just lets his creepy smile do the talking.

"And this is Rodney," Nora continues. "He's Canadian. They're super polite. Right, Rodney?"

Rodney huffs, then sticks out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Drew," he says woodenly.

"And this is my little brother, PJ."

PJ is squinting at Drew critically. "Do you play Starcraft?" he asks.

"Yes," says Drew. "Wanna play?"

PJ stares a little longer. John's heart swells with pride to see the little punk doing a bang-up job of freaking out Nora's first boyfriend. "Okay," he says finally. "Come on, this way."

* * *

Drew turns out to be a nice kid, much as John hates to admit it. He really is nerdy, but he and Nora obviously share the same offbeat sense of humor. It's actually a relief that Nora so obviously outclasses him; better that than seeing her with some prep school jock douche bag who'd do his best to make her feel like shit.

"You do realize she's dating you," says Rodney, a few days in. "I guess that's normal."

"What?" says John, startled. "Drew's nothing like me!"

"Drew's nothing like you _now_ ," says Rodney. "I'll bet he's a dead ringer for you when you were sixteen."

"Please," says John, "I was way cooler than"—

"You forget how long I've known you," says Rodney, "Mr. I-Had-the-High-Score-in-Asteroids."

"Oh," says John. "Well, yeah. But I was totally smooth with the ladies, I always had the cutest"—and he stops. " Oh."

"We can only hope he's gay and closeted like you, too," says Rodney with a sigh.

Drew is most certainly not gay and closeted, sadly. John walks unannounced into the basement den where the kids hang out most of the time and catches Nora straddling Drew's lap, kissing him. "Whoa!" says John, and Nora jumps a foot in the air before scrambling back over to the other end of the couch. "Oh my god," says John, stunned and hurt. "Okay, I need a minute. Don't – don't touch each other." And John leans against the wall and closes his eyes and breathes.

"John?" says Nora. "Maybe you should say something before you walk into the room."

John, eyes still closed, nods. "Maybe," he says, "maybe I should go get my shovel and my gun."

"He doesn't have a gun," Nora tells Drew. "John? Chill. No sex. Just making out."

"Ack," says John. "Oh, god." He opens his eyes and points up the stairs. "Go, now. Living room. Daylight. Adult supervision."

Nora sighs, but the two of them obediently head up the stairs, where John can watch them like a hawk.

"Whoa," says Rodney later when John explains. "She was _straddling_ him? Like, on his lap, straddling?"

"Like, straddling," says John. "Bits in contact with other bits."

"Through clothing!" Rodney exclaims urgently, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, foam all over his lips like a rabid dog. "Right?"

"Of course," says John acridly. "If they were naked I would have mentioned that first." He rubs his temples, sagging back against the headboard.

Rodney goes back into the bathroom to rinse and spit. He comes out looking even more ashen. "This is when we put her on the pill, right?" he says.

"This is it," says John. "I am so not cool with this."

"She's sixteen," says Rodney. "How old were you?"

"That's not the point," says John. "I mean, _Drew_? Really?"

"Sixteen?" Rodney says. "Huh. I was fifteen, if you're counting orgasms with a friend as sex. Seventeen, if you're counting, you know, doing the deed inside someone else. So I guess she's right in that zone." He blinks, unhappy. "Drew's probably better than a lot of kids," he says reluctantly.

"I guess," says John. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to take point on the sex talk? You were so good with Peej."

"Which totally makes it your turn," says Rodney. "Dibs out."

"Well, fuck," says John.

Rodney scoots into bed and flicks out the lights, burrowing closer to John. "The worst part is that this is totally killing my own sex drive," he says, sticking his hand down John's shorts anyway. "God, remember sixteen?"

"Mm," says John, exhaling as Rodney's hand shifts over him. "Vaguely."

"I had no damn clue what I was doing," Rodney says, "but it was all so exciting."

"Yeah," says John wistfully. "I bet you were hot."

"I was totally hot," says Rodney, then ducks under the covers and kisses his way down John's belly.

John lets himself imagine it, a little guiltily. He's seen pictures of Rodney from back then, all dark blond curls and red lips and big pretty eyes. "God," he says, and lifts his hips into Rodney's descending mouth. "Did you suck cock back then?"

Rodney slides back off John's erection and pulls the covers down so he can see. "Yeah," he says, "but I was probably pretty bad at it." He goes down again, letting his teeth get in the way a little, making John hiss air in sharply, but it's almost good.

Rodney makes a pleased sound when John gasps, and continues his sloppy faux-amateur blowjob, casting looks up at John through his lashes, doing a passable imitation of someone nearly thirty years younger. "Hey," says John, after a while, "come up here," and Rodney gets up over him on his hands and knees, grinning.

"Yes, sir?" Rodney asks playfully.

"Gross," says John, but his cock twitches. "Did you get fucked when you were that age?"

"I did," says Rodney, "and I didn't like it very much."

"That's not how this fantasy works," John says, fingering Rodney's wet swollen lower lip.

"Sorry," says Rodney, "I mean that I loved it. I was a total twinky bottom."

"Yeah," says John. "Go on."

"Mmm," says Rodney, dipping down to kiss John's neck, "I used to go cruising for guys a few years older than me. I liked it when they were military especially. Horny and on leave. I liked letting them boss me around a little."

"Yeah?" says John, getting into it more.

"Yeah," says Rodney. "Yes, sir."

"Oh," says John softly, and rolls them over, and suddenly it feels real, he can see young flushed gorgeous Rodney shyly flirting with John. "And what would you let them do to you?" he asks, hastily stripping Rodney's boxers off, smoothing his hands down skin he's imagining to be barer, more translucent.

"Anything you want, sir," says Rodney, and John spreads Rodney's thighs wide, holds his knees up until Rodney takes the hint and grabs them, and John gets down low on his belly, noses his way between Rodney's ass cheeks. "Oh," Rodney sighs shakily, and John can believe it's Rodney's first time doing this, that John is the first one here. He licks with the flat of his tongue at first, then dives in with the point. Rodney trembles, thighs shaking a little with the effort of holding still.

"Can I fuck you?" says John after a while, because Rodney's open and shivering and making all sorts of amazing sounds.

"Yes, sir," says Rodney with a scratchy voice. John digs his fingers into Rodney's ass cheeks, and Rodney gets it. "Please fuck me, sir. Please."

John gets the lube, a condom, and when he comes back Rodney's still, amazingly, holding position. Normally he would have started bitching minutes ago. "Here," says John, and slides Rodney's hands down, lets his thighs unfold a little. "I've got you," he whispers, and then lines himself up before pushing in with a long unforgiving stroke.

Rodney lets out a broken sound of relief. "Oh, god," he breathes, voice breathy, giving the illusion of a higher pitch. "Yes."

John holds Rodney there, open and penetrated and needy, for a long minute, his heart pounding out of his chest with want.

"Please," says Rodney finally. "Fuck me, sir. Please."

John gentles Rodney with a stroke of his hand over his face, and begins to move. Underneath him, he can still see the other Rodney, the young one with the cherry lips and the sharp jawline and the tousled curls. "Do you like it?" John asks, though he can see Rodney likes it a lot.

"Yes," says Rodney, and arches up. "There. Right there."

John furrows his brow and gets to work, thrusting into the place that's making Rodney groan and curse. "Do you want my hand?" he asks, gearing up for another "yes sir, please sir" moment.

"No," says Rodney, shaking his head, hitching his hips up, joyous. "No, I don't need"—and jesus. Jesus. Did that mean what John thinks it means? He redoubles his efforts, fucking in faster and harder than he has for quite some time, spurred on by the slip of Rodney's heels on the small of his back. "Ah," says Rodney, and digs his fingers into John's taut working shoulders. "Oh, god, god, here," and John looks down in time to see it, Rodney's cock coming untouched, striping up his belly and John's, and John is driven crazy by it, he's laid waste by it, the hotness of Rodney doing that because of him, and John grunts and shouts and slams into Rodney, probably a little too hard but fuck it, fuck it, because here comes his orgasm, bright and searing and squeezing his whole body with a shock wave of _yes, yes, yes_.

When John stops shaking, spilled into a puddle of limbs on top of Rodney's broad hairy everyday chest, he lifts his head and looks at Rodney, weirdly surprised to see his familiar face, his broad forehead and rounded jaw and short dark hair shot through with the occasional silver thread. "Did I take out your back?" John asks sheepishly, recalling too late that there's a reason they don't go that hard in this position anymore.

"Who the fuck cares if you did?" says Rodney with a dopey smile. "Jesus. Did you see what I did?"

"Yeah," says John, "that was insanely hot. I mean, insanely hot. Did you know you could do that?"

Rodney's mouth tilts out of its smile as he ponders the question. "I used to be able to," he says, "but it was never like that."

"Shit," says John, and raises himself up with rubbery arms, wincing as they pull apart. His cock is sore as hell, he can't even imagine how Rodney's feeling. "Ah, shit," he says again, seeing Rodney's asshole, looking fairly abused, red and puffy.

"So I'll sit on a hemorrhoid cushion for a few days," says Rodney, uncharacteristically cavalier about his body. "God. I would probably be okay if that was the last time we ever had sex. That could be, like, the pinnacle of our achievement in sex. They should give out prizes for that sort of thing."

"It was pretty awesome," John says, leaning over to drop the condom on the nightstand, clambering off the mattress and heading for the bathroom. "Water?" he asks, wetting down a washcloth. "I'm parched."

When he comes back out, Rodney is out cold. John smiles as he wipes them both down, then collapses into sleep beside him.

* * *

The next morning, Rodney is back to his usual self, grouchy and limping and resentful, and John still has to have the damned sex talk with Nora. "Don't chicken out," says Rodney, ransacking the cupboard under their sink for the inflatable donut cushion he'll need to work comfortably today. "Remember, you are the crazy badass who rode a nuke into space. Multiple times. Do not let a sixteen year old girl take you down."

"I know, I know," says John, scrubbing the towel over his hair and then more gingerly over his crotch. "Hey," he says, and kisses Rodney. "You're my favorite."

Rodney rolls his eyes and chalks up a point for John in the air. "Whatever," he says, "try that line again once I can contemplate life without muscle relaxants. My back is a mess."

"I'll give you a massage later," John says.

"Sex talk," says Rodney warningly. "Nora. Today."

"Yeah, yeah," says John.

But first John has to teach a few lessons down at the flight school, and then when he gets back home Nora's doing a shift at the pool. John decides to do some prep work, so he calls Lara and gets the number for her ob-gyn.

"I guess she's sixteen," says Lara. "God, can they just stay little kids for a minute longer?"

"Tell me about it," says John darkly.

The ob-gyn is on their HMO, praise be to god, so John calls her up and makes an appointment for Nora for the next week. The receptionist spares him the pain of trying to explain why, simply saying, "It's her first visit? All right, I'll let the doctor know. She'll want to do a standard pelvic and breast exam, and then she can talk to her about her options for contraception if you like."

"Yes," says John stiffly, wishing Nora was twelve and boycotting bras again. "Okay."

He makes a quick run to the grocery store and picks up a box of condoms, and after a moment of consideration, a little bottle of lube. It'll embarrass the hell out of Nora but John remembers first time sex all too clearly, and there's no need for anyone to go through that without the benefit of lots of slick.

He leaves the condoms, lube, and a note with the appointment info on her bed for her to find, telling himself that he's going to go up to her room later on and have the talk, confront her. However, it seems John has underestimated Nora's embarrassment threshold, because she's not home for more than a couple of minutes before she comes flying down the stairs with everything – card, condoms, lube – in her hands.

"What the hell?" she says. "I said I wasn't having sex with Drew!"

"Fine," says John, "now you're prepared for contingencies."

"I don't need to go to the gyno!" says Nora. "I'm not sexually active!"

"It looked pretty active, what I walked in on yesterday," says John awkwardly.

Nora makes a frustrated sound and dumps everything onto the kitchen table. "So I must have no control at all," she says, "is that what you think?"

"Of course I don't think that," says John, "but planning ahead is a good idea, even if you"—

Nora holds up a hand. "So you believe me?" she says. "That I'm not having sex and I don't plan to have sex anytime soon?"

John studies her carefully, but he can read Nora pretty well at this point. "I believe you," he says. "I just want you to be ready, just in case."

Nora sighs, folds her arms across her chest. "You know, I'm getting some pretty mixed messages here. One minute you have me and Drew on lockdown in the living room and the next you're giving me condoms."

"Well," says John, squirming a little, "things can happen when I'm not around to watch."

"Either you trust me, or you don't," says Nora. "If I take this stuff and go to the gyno and let her put her hand all up in my business, are you going to stop playing virginity cop and give me and Drew some privacy?"

"No!" says John, instinctively, then sighs shortly. "Is that the deal? Like, if you _don't_ take the stuff or go to the doctor, I get to lock you into a chastity belt and throw away the key?"

"Sure, why not?" says Nora. "That sounds like a healthy alternative." She waits.

John fucking hates it when Nora is smarter than him. He blames Rodney. "You'll go to the appointment," he presses, "and take the condoms?"

"Yes," says Nora, and picks up the stuff again. "If that proves that I'm responsible enough to make out with my boyfriend in peace, yes."

John nods, unhappy but accepting the compromise. "Okay," he says, and Nora makes as though to go back upstairs. "Wait," John barks, and she freezes. "I get that you're not planning to – to go through with it. And that's awesome, I'm all for that. But, Nora, stuff happens sometimes, even when you're an adult, you don't always get to make plans and stick to them when it comes to sex."

"Ugh," says Nora. "John. Seriously? We have to do this?"

"Seriously, we do," says John. "Rodney is going to kick my ass to the curb if I wuss out, so listen up."

Nora sighs heavily and affects an attentive face.

"Boys sometimes think that it doesn't count as sex unless," John says, and sketches a vague motion. "But that's not true, okay? Sex is way more complicated. Pretty much any time you are doing something that makes you or the other person," and he sketches another shape. "You know. Achieve."

"Climax?" says Nora.

"Yes," says John. "That. That can definitely count as sex. Okay?"

"Is that all?" Nora asks.

"No," says John. "The other thing is that doing all that other stuff, it might be sex, but it's not the same as the, the first kind of sex. That kind of sex is still a big deal too. It's like, right up there in the hierarchy of sex."

"Stop saying sex," says Nora, eyes going wide.

"Sex," John says again, and they both crack a grin.

"I think I get it," says Nora. "Is that everything?"

"No," says John, pained. "The first time doing anything," he says, "it might kind of suck. It all takes practice."

"Now you're telling me to practice sex," Nora observes dryly.

"I am?" says John, startled. "Shit, this got way out of hand. Never mind. Go forth and be chaste, my child. Angels weep when unmarried people get each other off."

"That's more like my Uncle John," says Nora approvingly. "Thanks," she adds, a little more sincerely, and skips up the stairs again.

* * *

After that, it stops being quite so horrifying, if only because John and Rodney can continue to live with Nora's last word on the subject, that she and Drew aren't sleeping together; and even if that's changed in the meantime, they know that Nora's health, at the least, is protected.

John pauses at the end of the stairwell leading into the den, clears his throat loudly, whistles a little tune, then stomps his feet a few times.

"Oh my god," Nora says, sounding utterly unsurprised. "Quick, Drew, put your pants on."

John enters the room and finds the kids playing a video game, seated a few feet away from each other.

"You're fast with those pants," says John, and goes over to the mini-fridge where Rodney makes him keep his American beers to reduce the risk of Rodney contaminating himself with Coors Light. "Much appreciated."

"My pleasure, Mr. Sheppard," says Drew, bouncing his character around a field of cartoon trees.

"You're such a dork," Nora tells Drew, and they grin at each other.

John smiles, hiding it behind his beer bottle's lip. "I'll just be upstairs," he says. "Resume the debauchery."

"Pants off," says Drew as John goes back upstairs. "You got it."

* * *

Nora and Drew stay together all through their junior year and break up amicably enough during the next summer. John is pretty sure that Nora's resolve must have weakened at some point, but he refuses to ask and Nora doesn't seem to have anything she wants to tell. "I need to be serious about college applications this year," she tells John and Rodney when September arrives, and fine. They're both good with that, with level-headed Nora making the usual wise decision, and things go perfectly smoothly until well into her final year of high school.

Then, one night in February, Rodney shakes John awake at three in the morning looking haggard and panicked. "She's not home," he says, and John doesn't have to ask who Rodney means.

John checks her bedroom, though Rodney already did, and calls her cell, though Rodney already did. "I was working late in my office," says Rodney, waving towards the guesthouse in the back where he does his consulting work, "and I came in and noticed that Brutus was still downstairs. He should have been up in her bedroom with her hours ago."

"Shit," says John, "oh, shit. I'm calling the police."

"I'll call her friends," says Rodney, and begins clicking through numbers on his cell phone.

The operator on the other end of the line is very helpful and promises to send a squad car to their house and then to patrol around the neighborhood for Nora. "Where was she earlier in the evening?" asks the operator. "Do you know what she's wearing?"

"I don't know, I don't know," says John, feeling like an utter shit. "Dammit, she went out after I was off at work and I went to bed early when I got back because I've got an early lesson tomorrow, I haven't seen her since about 6 p.m."

Rodney grabs the phone from him. "She was wearing dark blue jeans and a red hoodie," he says. "She's got long dark straight hair, she's Caucasian, eighteen years old, five ten, skinny, I have no idea what she weighs. One-thirty or one-forty, maybe?"

They hover in the front hall, terrified and edgy, until the squad car pulls up and an officer comes to the door. He takes down Nora's description. "Does her phone have GPS?" he asks, and Rodney is gone, he's flying through the house to the nearest computer, saying "God, McKay, think, think! GPS, why didn't you think of that?"

John hovers, feeling a sick sense of déjà-vu, watching over Rodney's shoulder and praying that whatever he's doing will work. It feels exactly the same, like the universe is hanging in the balance.

"Hey," says Nora from the doorway, suddenly. "Did you guys seriously call the cops on me?"

* * *

And just like that, sensible level-headed Nora has gone off the rails. There's a boy, of course there's a boy, and he's a year older and out of school and his name is Jack and he's obviously a total and complete asshole, but no one can seem to communicate this fact to Nora.

"It's not like we're shooting up heroin in a busted down crack house," she says. "Jesus, we were just out."

"Out doing what?" asks John dangerously.

"Out," Nora repeats, lifting her chin, defiant. "Out, out. What the fuck does it matter?"

"Oh, it matters," says John in a dark voice. "Do you know what time it is? You're – god! Can you hear what you're making me say? I sound like a clichéd dad in every teen movie ever! And you sound like the idiot kid he's shouting at!"

"I thought we were way beyond this," says Nora, "I thought you trusted me."

"I did!" John says. "Right up until tonight, I trusted you completely, but you blew it, kiddo! Trust is gone!"

"Whatever," says Nora, and pounds up the stairs to her room. "Whatever, _John_."

There's a ringing silence, and then Rodney blows out a breath of air. "Well," he says, "I guess we knew there'd be a Jack eventually."

"But I was really hoping he'd wait until after her SATs to enter the picture," says John. "Do you think they"—

"Oh, they definitely," says Rodney. "She didn't get that defensive over sitting around and talking all night."

"I miss Drew," says John, sadly.

* * *

Jack blows through their lives like a hurricane, taking Nora away from them and washing her back up, almost unrecognizable. It's over predictably quickly, though not as quickly as John would like, and at the end of it all he's standing in the doorway of Nora's bedroom, watching Rodney hold Nora and stroke her hair while she sobs and falls apart.

"I hate him," she says.

"I know, me too," says Rodney. "Let's both become lesbians."

And Nora's sob hitches into a laugh for a second and then it's gone. "God," she says, "I feel so stupid, I feel so dumb."

"Worst feeling in the world," Rodney says sympathetically. "Please take a moment to convince your uncle there not to go and commit hipster-cide."

"Please don't kill Jack," Nora tells John, but her heart's not in it. "Or kill him. Whatever."

John cracks his knuckles and bares his teeth.

"Hey, Rambo," says Rodney. "Go get ice cream. And tissues."

"And lesbian porn," Nora adds. "We have a steep learning curve ahead of us."

And so it goes on for a while. Nora isn't the same Nora after that, and for that alone John develops a dark and weird fantasy life in which he tortures and kills Jack over and over. Nora is a little less trusting and a lot more serious and she spends so much time with all her best friends that John starts to wonder if she's taking the lesbian thing to heart.

The first time things seem almost normal is the day Nora comes bursting into the house with a fistful of mail, waving one envelope high in the air. "I did it!" she shouts. "Oh my god, I got in!"

Rodney takes the letter and reads it quickly. "A six-year medical program?" he says, and John quickly takes over with, "That's awesome, that's amazing, way to go, getting into a medical degree program straight out of high school!" because Nora is beaming and Rodney is not going to take that away by talking about voodoo and soft sciences and Nora wasting her genius packing gauze into gang members' gunshot wounds.

"She's gonna be a doctor," John says fondly, later that night, resting his head on Rodney's chest as they both catch their breath. He strokes one hand down Rodney's body. "Hey, we did a pretty good job with her, after all."

"No tears equals a parenting win," says Rodney, repeating their old mantra, "though I might cry a little if she goes through with this idiot plan to spend half her life in school learning how to kiss boo-boos better."

"You're a little proud," says John, bowing his head to kiss Rodney's collarbone. "Admit it."

"Well, it's a very competitive program," says Rodney, which is probably as close as he's going to get to admitting anything.

"Plus," John says, "scrubs. Very baggy, shapeless, and concealing. Extremely unsexy."

"Lots of sleep deprivation in residency," Rodney adds. "She might age prematurely."

"Ah, who are we kidding," John says, smiling against Rodney's skin. "Kid's a knock-out."

Rodney snorts, musses John's hair up a little. "Damn you and your Sheppard genes," he growls playfully. "We can always hope she's fortunate enough to meet someone brilliant and handsome who sees past her more obvious charms, deep down to her weird sarcastic soul."

"Yeah," says John, thinking about it: a Rodney for Nora. "Yeah, actually, that'd be pretty great." And when Rodney kisses his head as thanks, John reaches up and chalks up one more point for himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Sixteen Going On Seventeen", yes, from The Sound of Music. *hangs head* In my defense, the runner-up was totally a line from the Growing Pains theme song. Agh!


End file.
